True and short tales of Banknotes Harper

Author’s note: If you haven’t already, you are invited to partake of the Banknotes Harper origin story.

Banknotes Harper was sitting at a cafe with Baudelaire and Dennis Kozlowski. “Banknotes,” Baudelaire said, “I’ll bet you all the money in Gaul that you can’t bring every notary public in the world to crushing orgasm.”

Thereupon, Kozlowski’s face turned ashen. “Pump your brakes, dickie bird,” said Banknotes Harper. “I don’t like to take money from poets. It smells like a shepherd.”

“Just as I thought,” sniffed Baudelaire.

“Fair enough, micro-dong,” said Banknotes Harper. “You’re on.”

“My God, no!” wailed Kozlowski.

Just then Banknotes Harper’s smith-forged jaw muscles twitched almost imperceptibly, and for the first time since he winked at the raven-haired lady at the corner table some two hours prior, he blinked. “As for what you have tasked me with doing, it is done,” said Banknotes Harper.

“You see,” Banknotes Harper continued, “my sex organ is talismanic and assumes many forms. It is the parcel carrier. It is the intoxicating gas at the dentist’s office. It is the weather.”

“But my wife is a notary public!” meowed Kozlowski.

“Yes,” said Banknotes Harper, “and now she’s a whore, as well.”

“You contain multitudes,” said Baudelaire.

“In exactly one hour,” began Banknotes Harper, “a low-ranking functionary of mine will present himself. You’ll know him by his remarking, in a Tangier brogue, ‘One can’t find a decent haberdasher anymore.’ You are to respond, ‘Yea, verily.’ He will pass to you a series of offshore account numbers scrawled on Lockheed Martin letterhead. All the money in Gaul is to be wired in even amounts to each account. If this is not done by tomorrow at 7 am, all time zones, then I’ll make you into shitty burgers.”

With that Banknotes Harper rose from his seat, flipped the table with his vast erection and then, as though conveyed by an invisible chariot with erotic scenes in mother-of-pearl inlay all over it, glided over to the raven-haired lady in the corner. “Lean me against the stairs of Montmartre and make punishing gigolo’s love to me,” she said to Banknotes Harper.

Then Banknotes Harper power-cleaned the raven-haired lady and carried her outside and did as she asked. Between thrusts, he arbitraged.

He had been double-parked since Tuesday last.


(This piece originally appeared at FanGraphs. It has since been revised and made even worse, probably.)

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